Page 7 of The Lady Sparks a Flame (The Damsels of Discovery #2)

7

If every individual substance were formed of different materials, the study of chemistry would, indeed, be endless; but you must observe that the various bodies in nature are composed of certain elementary principles.

—Mrs. Jane Marcet

“Sunshine! How delightful.” Karolina beamed at the morning light, looking enchanting in her lavender day dress and paisley shawl.

Phoebe smiled at her sister’s pleasure, then glanced at the end of the breakfast table where Sam Fenley sat, staring at his plate of fried cheese curds and jam.

“Mr. Fenley,” Phoebe said cheerfully, “how did you sleep last night?”

“How did I sleep?” he echoed, one hand pulling down his face, which sported the slightest bit of blond stubble. “How do you imagine I slept?”

Karolina, ignorant of what had occurred the night before, frowned. An arcing wrinkle appeared over her brows, serving to remind Phoebe her sister was no longer a child. Twenty years old was more than old enough to be married and starting a family.

For her sister’s sake, Phoebe had presented a test of fortitude to Sam Fenley. She reasoned if he was brave and sensible, he would appear rested and calm.

Instead, his eyes were especially wide, like a horse that had been spooked, and his clothes looked as though he’d slept in them.

“Would you prefer kippers, Mr. Fenley?” she asked sweetly. “I can have Cook bring out a plate of them.”

Karolina shuddered. “You know I cannot abide kippers. I do not like my meals to stare back at me.”

Kippers . Sam mouthed the word, his eyes narrowing as he fixed his gaze on Phoebe, suspicion dawning in his eyes.

Best Phoebe find something to do on the other side of the manor. It wouldn’t do to laugh now.

That would ruin the entire experiment.

···

“Kippers!”

The declaration brought Phoebe up short a few hours later.

Oh dear.

“Edward Poe,” Sam continued to bellow. Phoebe swiveled on her heel to face him as he stormed down the long hallway connecting the library to the great room.

Sam had directed them to begin an accounting of everything of value for him to catalog and resell on their behalf. She and Karolina had each taken a wing of the house, sketching out a plan of which rooms to itemize first; what they might keep and what would be unsellable.

Hopefully, both the auction and the sale of Prentiss Manor would go quickly. Phoebe wanted to return to America within the month but was afraid to leave before Moti and Karolina were settled.

Phoebe had watched her mother fall apart then come together over and over again through the years. If Moti were to fall apart now, Karolina would be vulnerable and there was never a guarantee that Moti would come back together.

Each time, her mother splintered into finer and finer pieces until someday she would turn to a cloud of sharpened dust.

The sunlight so exciting to Karolina had lasted throughout the day. Soon enough, the sky would fall dark, but for now a lovely carpet of lemon-colored light spread over the bare wooden floorboards of the hallway despite the dirty glass in the windows. Nothing hung from the walls except for cobwebs and peeling flakes of the whitewash over the plaster and stone walls.

Sam and Phoebe were alone.

The sunlight and bare floorboards made no difference to Sam Fenley. The sound of his feet on the floor bounced off the walls, foreshadowing the echo ringing in her ears when he tripped on—nothing! Unless a speck of dust lay before him; invisible to her eyes but large enough to bring a man down?

One second his long strides and clenched jaw made him resemble a marauder ready to sack a castle, the next, he’d pitched forward so quickly, she barely finished gasping before he broke his fall with his forearms and rolled. Without a single curse, he shot upright and headed toward her once again.

He came to a stop only inches from Phoebe, sunlight running its fingers through his hair, picking out the different shades of gold and softening the sharp line of his cheekbone.

The inconvenient appreciation of his face and figure could not be dampened by the prodigious scowl he wore. Her eyes lowered to admire the width of his shoulders and breadth of his chest, and she surreptitiously breathed the particular scent of him; competence and soap.

“You told me that story on purpose,” Sam said, hands on hips, gaze burning like a butcher readying to cut up a pig. “The question is, my lady, why .”

That last word, why , was said without anger. In fact, he sounded somewhat…wounded?

A crushing fist of guilt grabbed hold of Phoebe’s insides.

When she said nothing, an angry flush rose on his cheeks and those sky-blue eyes of his hardened. Standing in front of her was a man who had built his father’s small emporium into a household word, then had gone on to buy broadsheets and mansions.

“Did you find it amusing to scare the commoner? Feeling resentful that some shopkeeper’s son was going to sleep on your ancestral bed, so you found a way to keep him sitting up all night?”

Phoebe’s father, her former lover Adam Winters, Grantham—they were large men in body, voice, and temper. While Sam was equally as tall, he did not loom so the shadow he cast threatened to suffocate her. His anger didn’t turn her bowels to water and his frown did not make her skin cold and clammy.

Fear was not power, but fear still made her small and weak.

Phoebe wasn’t afraid of Sam.

That must have been the reason she reached over and clasped one of his hands in hers. She’d left off her gloves in one of the rooms and her hands were small and pink against his large, somewhat callused palm.

“You are correct, Mr. Fenley. I did mean to scare you last night.”

He deflated with a small huff, and Phoebe had to refrain from bringing his palm to her chest so he could feel her sincerity.

“Not because of your social standing. I swear,” she said, feeling even worse when he raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “It was—I have a terribly inappropriate sense of humor. I am sorry.”

Sam glanced at their entwined hands and said nothing.

Oh dear.

“I sincerely apologize,” she promised. “I amused myself at your expense and that was…wrong.”

Ugh.

Being noble and kind was difficult.

All these uncomfortable words; apologize and sincere .

Phoebe dropped Sam’s hand, but he’d wrapped his long fingers around her wrist and did not let go.

“Why, then?” he asked solemnly.

Arrested by the sight of his fingertips over the delicate blue veins poking out from her sleeve, Phoebe’s breath caught, and a wild fluttering pulsed beneath her skin. The air around them, so clammy before, was now charged as though someone had conducted an invisible current from their feet through the floorboards and into the atmosphere.

She could not tear her eyes from where they touched, and her mouth went dry.

“Lady Phoebe?” Sam whispered.

Phoebe finally met his gaze and told him the truth.

“You were already nervous, and your eyes were big, like this…” She widened her eyes and went slack-jawed.

Sam’s mouth puckered as if he wanted to kiss her.

Or call her a nasty name.

“I told myself it was a test of your fortitude. If you slept easy after such a tale, I’d be certain you were level-headed and sensible.” Phoebe sighed and forced out the rest of her confession. “Once I began, I couldn’t stop. It was so…so…”

Grimacing, Sam gently loosened his grip on her wrist.

“…so funny,” Phoebe finished, exasperated at her own amusement. “How was I to keep myself in control when your voice rose higher and higher? Your ears lay back against your head and you resembled a fish on shore, gasping for water.”

This morning, Sam had dressed soberly, as if for business. His coat and trousers were of a simple cut and made from wool and cotton. The wide ivory cravat around his throat had only one knot, as if to show he’d no time for anything as silly as fashion.

“I beg your pardon. Are you comparing me to a dead fish? A kipper , perhaps?” he snarled.

Accusingly, Phoebe pointed at Sam’s face. “You’re doing it again. And your eyebrows are pointy now. How am I supposed to control myself around you, Mr. Fenley, when you look as you do?”

The moment those words left her mouth, Phoebe understood how they could be construed. A wave of heat burned her face nearly to a crisp as Sam’s face went blank, then practically glowed.

Oh no, oh no no no.

That smile. That insultingly bright smile of his gave even the sun pause as it lit his face further.

“No control over yourself around me, eh, Lady Phoebe?”

Horrid man.

As palpable as the heat of a candle flame, his delight washed over her. Phoebe knew him well enough now. She would never hear the end of this.

“Well, I have a suggestion as to what—” He quit his words abruptly and dropped her hand.

“Hallo, you two.”

Karolina popped out from the great room, a sheaf of rag paper in one hand, a stick of graphite in the other. She’d covered her pretty day dress with an apron, but the white lace cap lay askew atop her head, drooping over her curls in a fetching manner.

Fresh and pretty. Young—younger than Sam, for certain. Deserving of a life with far more happiness and joy than could be found in a place like Prentiss Manor.

It was wrong for Phoebe to tease Sam. Wrong to delight in his smiles or bask in the heat of his smile.

That smile, that warmth. It should be reserved for Karolina.

Not for a woman faced with the choice of prison or exile. If in the darkest hours of night, deep beneath her blankets, Phoebe wished for someone’s smiles…well, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and Phoebe had no choices left.

There was no one to blame but herself.

“Mr. Fenley was asking me how one might amuse oneself here at the manor,” Phoebe said lightly. Without taking her eyes from her sister, she gestured to where Sam stood. “I’m certain if the two of you put your heads together, you can come up with something.”

Taking her leave, Phoebe walked past her sister and into the room next door, never looking back.

···

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on you.

Sam knew this wasn’t the correct quote. Wasn’t it the Neapolitans who coined the correct phrase? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me .

Rather quick to take the blame, those southerners.

A loud thump came from the room on the other side of the wall. If Sam remembered correctly, the room had been labeled a ballroom on one old map, and armory on another. Ballroom. Armory. Not so dissimilar. The mothers of young virgins could be as frightening as a cannon pointed toward one’s head.

The last time Sam heard thumps in the night was, well, last night. Every night in fact. Nightfall at Prentiss Manor was a cacophony of creaks, groans, taps, and thumps. Bizarre, since during the day, the place was silent as the grave.

The first time he’d heard noises, however, it had been a ploy by Lady Phoebe to scare the pants off him.

Sam paused and contemplated the question of him without pants and Lady Phoebe in the same room.

Thump . The sound came again, followed by a voice. Deep. Wounded.

A trick or a murder or a ghost? Or all three?

He’d been trying to find Lady Karolina since after breakfast, which was thankfully not kippers. Not coddled eggs and ham, either.

Breakfast was a travesty, is what it was, and it gave Sam the motivation to begin his master plan. Mesmerizing Lady Karolina with his excess of charm and sunny disposition, courting, then marrying her.

They seemed compatible. She enjoyed art and Shakespeare. Sam enjoyed listening to her talk about art and Shakespeare. Nothing terrifying or dangerous about Lady Karolina. A simple, pleasant, peaceful woman like her was everything Sam had been expecting in a wife.

Imagine the set of bollocks on the man who tried to court her sister, Lady Phoebe. Ha. That woman was a dragon; beautiful scales on the outside that were hard enough to break steel. Passionate fire on the inside, ready to burn anyone too stupid to spar with her.

Sam wasn’t going to mess with that combination.

Even if he pictured Lady Phoebe in his bed, the thought of Phoebe outside the bedroom, say, standing amid the chaos of his house in Clerkenwell, was humorous. Ridiculous.

Oxymoronic, really.

Shaking his head to rid himself of such stupid daydreams, Sam examined the double doors leading to the ballroom/armory and considered his next actions.

What could be so frightening on the other side of the doors? Wasn’t he a grown man? A strong, healthy grown man who had not pulled a dresser over in front of his bedchamber door each night to keep out ghosts. Everyone knew ghosts floated right through doors and dressers.

It might slow them, however.

Sam decided to leave the ballroom to whatever entity caused the thumps and search the ground floor for Lady Karolina when he heard the scream.

He ran halfway down the hall, then came to a halt.

Damn. That had been a mortal’s scream, hadn’t it?

A gentleman would have dashed into the ballroom without a second thought. Sam, being a merchant and thus in possession of common sense, had run away.

Not, perhaps, the way to impress a lady. Or a dragon.

He sighed and trudged back the way he’d run, put his hands on the doorknobs, said a small prayer to Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes, and threw open the doors.

Thump.

Sam’s mouth twisted like a rope from a frown to a grin and then back again at the sight greeting him while his heart kept beating wildly and his eyes grew wide.

On the floor were a pile of feather bolsters and small couch pillows. Lying on the haphazard mound staring up at Sam was Jonas, looking none too pleased. Standing over Jonas, her hair pulled back into a braid of the sort milkmaids might wear, dressed in a plain India cotton day dress with no—thus the heart beating and the eyes widening— no petticoats , was Lady Phoebe.

Sweet Jesu, but the woman had a figure. The outline of her long legs and beautifully curved hips was clear as day. Her pantalettes showed through the thin material, and the brown striped skirt of the dress fell only to midcalf. Sam’s jaw dropped when he saw how much of her stockinged leg was visible.

What was this? An orgy?

Lady Karolina stood to the side, dressed in a blue gown, also not wearing petticoats. Her gown had been tied high enough that her calves were showing.

Jonas, muttering something no doubt filthy in Lithuanian, wore only a linen shirt, breeches, and stockings. No shoes or waistcoats to be seen.

“What on earth are you doing, and why are you doing it without me?” Sam cried.

Lady Phoebe tucked her bottom lip over her top and released a puff of breath that failed to dislodge the thick lock of black hair plastered to her forehead by sweat.

Jesu. Thankfully, Sam was dressed and the jacket he wore was long enough to cover any reaction he had with an eyeful of Lady Phoebe, nearly naked and perspiring.

“Oh, Mr. Fenley,” Lady Karolina cried, crossing her arms over her chest, her cheeks covered with cherry-colored blotches from embarrassment. “Please don’t look. Please don’t tell Moti. Please don’t look or tell Moti.”

Huh. Here was something Sam recognized. A bargaining piece. Not coin, but close enough.

Jonas levered himself up from his prone position and glared. “Is it the custom for men in London to enter a room without invitation?” he demanded.

The effect of Jonas’s glower was spoiled by the hair on his head having won its battle with comb and pomade so that it now resembled more a mop. A giant mop.

Lady Phoebe did not share her sister’s embarrassment. She bent her long, white neck to the side and stared at Sam with those gem-colored eyes.

“Mr. Fenley,” she said, each consonant crisp and cold like the tartest of ciders. “I was demonstrating a set of skills to my sister. Would you care to help in the demonstration?”

He grinned and swallowed an evil chuckle.

“Why, what skills might they be, Lady Phoebe, which require you to present yourself in such deshabille?”

Lady Phoebe did not return the smile. Instead, she held out a hand to Jonas, then helped him to stand. He brushed off his breeches and ran his fingers through the bird’s nest atop his head.

“You should have minded your own business. Now you’re in for it,” Jonas grumbled. With pleasantries out of the way, he left the room. Limping slightly.

No matter. Sam knew what Lady Phoebe was about.

Arthur Kneland had taught the secret scientists at Athena’s Retreat how to protect themselves against dangerous men. Letty had, in turn, demonstrated for her sisters. They had also required practice.

Sam knew exactly why Jonas limped. Sam had limped, too, after a few bouts with his sisters.

“It is my pleasure to help you ladies.” Sam offered himself up to impress the Lady Karolina. Beneath the slightly damp cotton, she had a delightful figure as well.

Why, what could be more pleasant than grappling with a nearly naked sweaty woman?

Sam held out a hand toward Lady Karolina in offering, only to find himself lying on his back and gasping for air.

“Unfair,” he wheezed.

Lady Phoebe did nothing to hide her pleasure, gesturing with her chin toward him.

“Do you see, Karolina? If a man tries to grab you like so…”

He sat, rubbing his spine. “Didn’t try to grab her, milady. Offered her my hand out of good manners. This is how good manners are repaid?”

“…you must use their weight against them.”

Peering at Sam as though he were a toad, Lady Phoebe sniffed.

“I hope naught but your pride is wounded, Mr. Fenley?”

Sam got up and took a step toward Lady Phoebe, standing so close, their toes nearly touched. Her white skin had a warm peach color from her exertions and glowed in the meager daylight coming in through those few French doors that weren’t boarded up. Allowing himself only the quickest of glances at the press of her breasts against her canvas stays, visible beneath the thin cloth, Sam let his gaze tangle with hers.

Lady Phoebe reached out for his arm, hoping to catch him unawares a second time and heave him over her shoulder like Arthur Kneland was forever doing to Grantham. Why, when it was Lady Karolina he was here to impress, were the tiny cat claws of anticipation climbing up his spine as the result of Lady Phoebe’s gaze upon his chest and his legs? Why was it Lady Phoebe, whose scent of porcelain and lemon, made him dizzy?

Lady Phoebe grasped his arm with her long, supple fingers and stepped in toward him, her hip butting into his stomach in preparation for another toss.

Too bad.

Sam had gotten tired of his sisters throwing him to the ground. He’d figured out a way to best them—for a while. Thus, when Lady Phoebe twisted her torso, instead of jerking back, Sam followed her movement. He embraced her from behind and, since he needed an element of surprise—and this was the only reason—his hand slipped over her stomach, coming to rest on her round, supple hip.

Rather than flipping him over her shoulder, Lady Phoebe found herself trapped in his embrace. The shock of a woman’s warm body beneath him sent a shudder through Sam. The cat’s claws turned sharper, and a heavy buzzing sensation gathered at the base of his spine. She was strong. Stronger than most gentlewomen, for certain. The shifting of her back muscles beneath his chest was a surprise and a heady delight.

Sam leaned down to speak into Lady Phoebe’s ear, close enough when he whispered, his lips grazed her soft lobe.

“As I said, my lady. This is my pleasure.”

Lady Phoebe and Sam were not alone. Lady Karolina stood only a few paces away. Nor were they in a darkened room, hidden from the world. They stood in the center of a ballroom, exposed to the daylight.

Yet…yet Sam, for an instant, let the world around them melt away. The thud of Lady Phoebe’s heartbeat was so strong, it thumped through his own chest. A million points of contact between them merged, and if he moved even a quarter of an inch, the friction would give off a spark.

For one long, torturous, and too short a moment, he and Lady Phoebe stayed still, their hearts beating in counterpoint, their breath mingling in the humid air, an unspoken message passing between them before the spell was broken.

“Oh my!” Lady Karolina exclaimed. “Mr. Fenley, you have exposed to us a weakness we knew nothing about.”